


I'm just gonna concentrate on you

by GlitterDwarf



Series: wouldn't it be nice to get some closure? [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, Mentions of past abuse, in this house we work through our feelings, it's vacation time baybeeee, lengthy af discussions leading up to the divorce, mommy issues all around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23607505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitterDwarf/pseuds/GlitterDwarf
Summary: “So you don’t want to come with me?”“Wait, what?” Eddie asked. His hands stilled, and he stared at the dark screen of his phone, laying a few feet away from him. “You want me to come with?”“No, Eds, I was just calling to brag about it. Yes, of course I want you with me. We both could use a break, right?”Eddie was silent for a few seconds, before letting out a surprisingly quiet, “oh.”When Richie's Netflix special drops, he decides to hide from the world for a couple of days and take Eddie with him. It's very convenient.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Myra Kaspbrak (past), Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: wouldn't it be nice to get some closure? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710127
Comments: 10
Kudos: 258





	I'm just gonna concentrate on you

**Author's Note:**

> ALRIGHT, after a solid year of consuming so fucking much IT fic, it was time to finally contribute to the fandom in the smallest of ways. This is my love letter to a fandom that has stolen my sanity and my brain. Bless.
> 
> p.s. I didn't proof this because I'm tired and just want it to be posted okay byyyyeeeeee

The minute the plane touches down on the tarmac, Eddie turns his cell service back on and stares blankly at the screen, waiting for the notification he knows will buzz in any moment. Under his feet the aircraft is still rumbling, and his body is swaying with the inertia as they tumble down the tarmac at over 100 miles per hour. Still, his eyes don’t leave the screen. 

“Come the fuck on,” he thinks, staring at where the little letters of his cell carrier are at the top of his screen. The plane is slowing, almost docked before his phone pings softly in his hands. Three notifications pop up for e-mails, two more for calendar updates, and one more from his phone letting him know the time zone he’s in has changed. At the top, there’s the text message he knew would be there.

“welCUM to cali,” the text says, followed by emojis for a palm tree, the crazy face with tongue sticking out, three water droplets and a green heart. Eddie huffs a laugh, rolls his eyes and bites at the corner of his mouth to smother a smile.

“Fuckin’ dumbass,” he murmurs as he flicks the phone open to reply to Richie. 

— 

_“Wait, so your agent wants you to get off the fuckin’ grid?” Eddie had asked last month, voice even louder than usual. He had been on speakerphone and his phone was on the other end of the room, left while he got up to quickly grab more newspaper to wrap around the knick-knacks in his home office he was boxing up. He came back and stuck the award for being a Pace Setter—whatever the fuck that meant—in the middle of the newspaper and started carefully wrapping it around the weird edges of the crystal. “Isn’t this right after your Netflix special drops?”_

_“Yeah, that’s the fucking point, Eduardo,” Richie’s voice snorted from the other line. “Just get out of the way until the reviews are in. If they’re bad, then it’s fine, I’m already hiding from the world and the paps can’t get me stress eating a metric ton of hot wings.”_

_“And if the reviews are good?”_

_“Then I buy some lotto tickets, fuck a Hemsworth and run for President because I guess anything is possible, huh?”_

_“Oh shut the fuck up,” Eddie bit out as he aggressively taped everything together. “You’re fucking funny, of course people are gonna love it.”_

_“Whoa, did you just say I’m funny?” Richie’s voice sounded way too smug on the other line, and it made Eddie roll his eyes, not for the first––or second, or twenty-ninth––time during this call, despite the fact that Richie couldn’t even see him. “I gotta write down the date and time, this is a new holiday—“_

_“Okay dipshit—“_

_“—Eddie, do you_ like _me? Oh my_ God _—“_

_“—I take it back, you’re the fucking worst—“_

_“—Be still my heart—“_

_“_ Okay, dickhole. _You’re distracting—none of this is the point! You could get positive reviews! No problem! If critics are ready to suck down Jeff Dunham’s creepy puppet dick, why not you?”_

_The sound of Richie’s laughter on the other end almost blew out the speaker on his phone. Eddie quietly smiled to himself, preening a little (no one was around to see anyway, so what if he felt proud every time he heard Richie laugh at something he said?) while he gently placed his award in the open cardboard box._

_“Okay, okay, Spaghet, whatever you say,” Richie said. “Sure, maybe I’ll get positive reviews. And all the critics will just have to wait a few days to suck_ my _creepy puppet dick. You know economics, something something scarcity and demand.”_

_Eddie made a contemplative noise as he continued wrapping the more fragile of his belongings. “Sure. Okay. Well okay Rich, I hope you have fun, wherever you go?”_

_“So you don’t want to come with me?”_

_“Wait, what?” Eddie asked. His hands stilled, and he stared at the dark screen of his phone, laying a few feet away from him. “You want me to come with?”_

_“No, Eds, I was just calling to brag about it._ Yes _, of course I want you with me. We both could use a break, right?”_

_Eddie was silent for a few seconds, before letting out a surprisingly quiet, “oh.”_

_“I mean wouldn’t the timing work out? Isn’t that when you’re moving out?” Richie asked._

_He had looked around the room then, taking in the sight of his important belongings slowly getting boxed up. Eddie was working ahead of time, because of course he is. He can’t physically do anything without months of preparation, so of course he’s started packing for a move a month out. He started in this room, his home office, where he spent most of his days while he lived here. And still, despite the sheer amount of time spent here, of the work accomplished and the goals met, it’s jarring how few things in the room truly look like him. There’s no agency in here, no choices. No life._

_“You still there?”_

_“What?” Eddie asked, a little startled. Oops. “Yeah, fuck, I’m here. Yeah. Yeah, the timing would be…yeah.”_

_“Well don’t sound_ too _excited, Eddie, a girl might get the wrong idea.”_

_“Shut the fuck up,” he responded without thinking. “Yeah, that would be. It would be nice. To spend time with you. Yeah.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“So great.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Perfect,” Eddie rasped. Silence. “Wait, where the fuck are you going?”_

—

The rental is nice— _very_ nice. Like, _suspiciously_ nice. Like, Eddie is pretty sure the last time he saw a house that looked this nice it was on a Real Housewives show, or even The O.C. or something. He squints up at it, beachside with floor to ceiling glass, modern and yet not cold-looking, like something Ben would jizz all over if he saw it.

“Are you paying for this shit?” Eddie asks, swiveling his head to stare at Richie. His friend is just grinning to himself, eyes shielded by prescription sunglasses that Eddie knows are too fucking expensive to go on the face of a dweeb like that. Richie is currently fighting with the several pieces of luggage between them; Eddie had tried to grab his own from Richie’s trunk, but had been swatted away, in a move that Eddie hated to admit to himself was kind of…classy, actually. 

“Nah, my agent got Netflix to swing it. A fun little bonus for being such a good little boy,” Richie explains as he wrangles all the suitcases up to the front door. Once inside, it’s weird, it’s so weird; it’s like being on a set, in the middle of some ridiculous opulence. So many cold, straight lines, so much marble, and it’s just… _ugh._ Why are rich people like this?

“Jesus Christ, this looks like the kind of house you control with an app,” Eddie grumbles. Richie chuckles but doesn’t disagree, putting his hands on his hips and looking around the room, letting out an impressed whistle.

“It’s…nice.”

“It’s cold. Sterile. Fuck, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, nothing we can’t ruin with our dirty little hands, you annoying little grump.”

The one nice thing is the view of the backyard through those stupid fucking floor-to-ceiling glass windows and doors. Eddie can see that it slopes down to a private beach area, and the Santa Barbara sky outside is annoyingly, beautifully bright blue. There is some tasteful but _weird_ landscaping surrounding what looks to be—

“Nice, an infinity pool!” Richie screams before whipping his shirts off—what the _fuck_ —and running in its direction, leaving flip flops and throwing his phone, sunglasses, and wallet in random directions.

“Hey, fucker—don’t run in the house!” Eddie shouts after him, walking quickly in Richie’s direction. He makes it out the door just in time to quickly duck back inside to miss the water that splashes back from the fucking _cannonball_ Richie performs, Jesus _Christ._

There’s a terrible, Disney-esque moment when Richie emerges, whipping his head back so water sprays like he’s some grungy mermaid. The water is reflecting so much light that he looks fucking _blinding_ ; Eddie swears he can see the reflection of every tiny droplet in his— _Christ_ —his chest hair, and they’re all shining right back in Eddie’s eyes like taunting, sexy sirens. What the _fuck_. 

“Is that you, Eds? I can’t see anything without my glasses but I could recognize that sexy blob anywhere.”

“Fuck off,” Eddie murmurs, finally stepping closer to the pool but outside of the danger zone from any hands that might try to snatch an ankle and pull him in. “Christ, you idiot, you couldn’t put on real swimwear?”

“Who cares? For the next seventy-two hours this house is _ours,_ ” Richie says with a blinding, annoyingly nice-looking grin. “I can fuck the tile grout if I want to.”

“Charming,” Eddie grumbles, poking at the aforementioned tile grout with his foot.

“You okay over there? Your blurry face is looking a little red.”

“What? Fuck you. I’m fine. Fuck off. It’s just hot out here.”

“Well, the water sure is _fine_ in here,” Richie sing-songs, flopping backward dramatically to float. His distressingly long limbs are suddenly all visible, and now there’s glistening body hair—ugh, why is that so _good_ to look at—shining at him from all angles. It looks like Richie lost his jeans at some point, and now there’s, _fuck_ , his boxer shorts, wet and clinging and leaving so little to the imagination, and Eddie––

“I’m gonna go unpack,” Eddie announces, ignoring how strangled his voice sounds. Richie makes some vague noises from the pool, disagreeing with everything Eddie has ever done, so he quietly flips Richie off from over his shoulder and retreats, shivering despite the heat.

—

_“You know, I almost cheated on you,” Myra had said, barely above a whisper. They were in couple’s therapy and had been for months since Eddie had returned from Derry to New York. At first, he agreed because he didn’t want to fight and because he felt that he owed her. He had disappeared for weeks, reappeared with terrible scars and medical bills, sheepish with hands up in surrender to whatever she had in store for him. He had expected fights, lockdowns, some vague memory tickling at the back of his mind of being locked into his room as a kid when he had misbehaved. Myra would look at him but he was only seeing his mother, red-faced as she slammed his bedroom door and told him that only good boys who love their mother deserve to be outside. His arm would ache, his chest would tighten, and he would just look at Myra, helpless, almost desperate to be punished._ I’ve done things, I’ve done bad things, _he tried to say with his eyes._ I deserve whatever you have for me.

_What she had was a number for a couple’s therapist. She had been holding on to it for years, apparently. While he was gone she had started seeing her own, who had helped her identify her control issues and start working on them. It was his turn now, but maybe this was something they could only work on together._

_“I just think this is what we have to do, Bear,” she had said, quietly. “If you really love me like I love you, you’ll try.”_

_Guilt. He could handle the guilt. Guilt moved his feet, got him to the door of Dr. Auckman, a quiet, contemplative woman who was good at facilitating—which is, yeah, kind of what you need, right?—and surprisingly good at calling both of them out on their bullshit. The real surprise of the first sessions was how quickly both Eddie and Myra turned their ire from each other and redirected it at the doctor, lashing out like angry raccoons who don’t want their favorite trash taken from them. Dr. Auckman would take this quietly, with a wry smile, as they both screamed at her that she didn’t know what she was talking about. They ended the sessions the same every week—booking the next one._

_Now, though. Now both of them were tired of yelling, both at each other and at the doctor. Eddie could see the exhaustion in Myra’s eyes, and the guilt pulsed in his chest. Yes, he deserved it. Yes, he pushed her. Yes, they were so close, if he could just be a little bit worse, then maybe she would end it once and for all and he would be...well._

_“Oh?” He finally croaked after her revelation about almost cheating on him. “Oh, you...did?”_

_“I’m so sorry, Eddie. I just...I needed. A connection. That you weren’t giving me.”_

_“Do you want to speak to that more?” Dr. Auckman asked. “What connection do you not feel from Edward?”_

_Myra was quiet for a moment, choosing her words carefully in the way they were both learning to._

_“It isn’t that I don’t...like our marriage. Sometimes I hear things my girlfriends talk about dealing with from their husbands, and I just think about how happy I am that my Eddie isn’t like that. He isn’t demanding, you know, in the bedroom. He cleans around the house without me asking him. He’s...thankful. He recognizes what I do.”_

_Eddie smiled at this, trying to encourage her with the acknowledgment that he’s listening. When she looked in his eyes, he recognized her face. And it wasn’t Sonia’s face through Myra, at all; it looked like him. It looked like fear, like trying, like anxiety._

_“But we also don’t love each other like my friends love their husbands. We’re roommates. And we’re bad roommates to each other sometimes. I guess I just wanted...passion.”_

_Eddie’s chest was tight again, breath shallow. He knew what she meant, and more terribly, when he thought of passion there was only one face that popped up in his mind._

_“Edward, how does it feel to hear Myra say that?” Dr. Auckerman asked after a few moments of silence. “How do you feel about your marriage?”_

_“I...I agree,” he said, nodding. “That our marriage isn’t. Uh. Passionate. I think that’s kind of my fault, probably. I get it.” He swallowed a couple of times, thinking about dark hair and dumb glasses. “I get why you would want somebody else.”_

_“I’m sorry, Bear,” Myra said, and he could hear the tears in her voice. When he looked at her, there were tears in his eyes, too._

_“I’m sorry, too.”_

—

There’s a lot of touristy shit to do in Santa Barbara, especially if you’re a middle-aged, East Coast fuck who has kind of boring taste. Eddie hasn’t been around the ocean a lot, so even just being outside and smelling the salt in the air is lowkey exciting. There’s something about this area, just far enough away from Los Angeles to be less crowded without sacrificing the gorgeous beach aesthetic. 

“Oh shit, Eds, look, _more_ antiques,” Richie drawls. “This is definitely way better than hanging out in the cool smart house.” He has his hands in his—frankly, _ridiculous_ —bright yellow shorts and he’s walking in a way that means he’s probably trying to look bored, but looks too much like his childhood impression of a cowboy mosey. _Put ‘em up, Pardner,_ he used to say, pointing a finger gun at Eddie’s chest. 

“ _You’re_ a fucking antique,” Eddie says without thinking too much. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to get out of the sun, actually. He changes the direction they’re headed and goes straight for the door to one of the admittedly many, _many_ antique stores. “Come on, maybe there’s good shit in here.”

“Nice, let’s find something for your mom that will finally make her love me.”

“Jesus,” Eddie grumbles, tired already, as he pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head and holds the door open for Richie. “Aren’t you tired of that old ass joke yet?”

“What can I say, I love an _antique,_ ” Richie says, sing-song as he bows at Eddie and goes through the open door. 

The shop is small and kind of cramped, overstuffed with all kinds of random items, the only thing linking them is their _oldness_. A cursory look around the store shows a mixture of furniture, knick-knacks, wall hangings, clothes, jewelry, books, even vinyl records. He finds himself gravitating toward the record collection, thumbing through the sleeves in old crates.

“Ooh, nice,” Richie’s voice comes from behind his shoulder, much closer than Eddie thought he was. The breath of air from his speaking is even ruffling Eddie’s hair, and _fuck_ is it hard for his entire fucking body to not just shiver right now. He imagines for a second leaning back into his friend’s warmth. Maybe Richie would even put his hands around his hips, pull him even closer, nuzzling into his hair. Maybe—

“Eddie, look! Chumbawamba!” 

Turns out Richie is now, well, further away than he was just a second ago—maybe more than a second ago? Jesus, get a grip—and now he’s holding up a collection of some of their worst music from high school.

“Jesus, please don’t—”

“I get knocked down! But I get up again!” Richie starts singing, thankfully _quietly_ , and it turns into just mindless humming as he continues looking through the collection. “Eds, baby, this is a song about _you_ , you little phoenix.”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie murmurs while he keeps looking. Oh, he used to love this Rod Stewart album. Behind it is, _fuck_ , a single for “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” He smiles a little, thinking of the group of them, so many little idiots, scream-singing to each other, “I need you now tonight, I need you more than ever!” 

Richie isn’t around when he looks back up, so he continues looking around the shop by himself. There’s some nice furniture in here, old but solid, and it reminds him of how he’s going to need to furnish his new place soon. It’s just a little crazy-making to think of it right now, of all his things boxed up away in the first place that he could get approved for that didn’t suck completely and was larger than a matchbox. Fucking New York real estate, he thinks, running a thumb along an incredibly beautiful mid-century table. All of this is too heavy and large for his new space, much smaller since now it’s just for him, but it’s kind of nice to dream for a moment.

When Richie pops up again he’s charming the sales attendant, a sweet-looking elderly woman wearing a lot of flowy, floral fabric. She’s smiling kindly back at him, and he looks almost...respectable? He’s at least being quiet and polite, which is a little new. It’s kind of weird to see people respond to Richie in such a positive way, to see him behaving well for once. Eddie hangs back for a moment, just enjoying watching the exchange. Eventually, the attendant notices him and smiles over Richie’s shoulder. He turns, spots Eddie, and grins at him, waving him over.

“Is this who you were talking about?” the woman asks, reaching out a hand to shake Eddie’s. “I’m Barbara.”

“Hello, Barbara, I’m Eddie,” he introduces himself. She smiles first at him, then looks back at Richie and winks.

“Yes, I know. Your husband here was just telling me about your trip.”

“Oh,” Eddie breaths, and whoops, there’s that chest pain again. He looks at Richie, who looks just as startled as Eddie feels, but neither of them jumps in to correct her. I mean, she’s just a stranger they’ll never see again, it isn’t worth it...is it? “Yeah, it’s uh...it’s nice to get away for a couple of days. Santa Barbara is very nice.”

“Well we’re happy to have you here,” she says with a smile. “If you come back before you leave, you might meet my wife. She brings in her baked goods on Monday mornings.”

“That sounds amazing, Babs,” Richie says with a grin. “Hard to say no to that.”

“Don’t be shy if you want to buy anything else!” Barbara nods at them and walks away, and they exit the store. 

They’re out on the street, both quiet, as Eddie focuses on not having a complete breakdown at being mistaken for Richie’s husband. Eventually, they reach the promenade and walk down it slowly.

“Hey, uh, sorry for that,” Richie finally says. Eddie looks at him, a little startled. Behind his prescription sunglasses, Richie is looking a little flushed, which probably just means that he didn’t put on sunblock as Eddie told him to. 

“For what?”

“For the...husbands thing. I just. Seemed weird to correct her.”

“No, right.”

“I mean, she didn’t know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“We might never see her again.”

“Exactly.”

There’s some more awkward silence, just the click-clack of their feet on the cobblestones. This is not a street super friendly to people with bad joints, Eddie thinks, scrambling to find something to think about. He finally notices the bag in Richie’s hands.

“Wait, what the fuck is that?” 

Richie looks down, and it’s like he only remembers then that he’s holding something.

“Oh yeah, fuck, I uh. I got you something,” Richie says, sheepishly, crazily. They’ve stopped moving. Eddie stares back and forth between Richie’s face and the bag.

“So can I have it?”

“Yeah, fuck,” Richie says with a laugh, handing it over. Inside, unsurprisingly, is a record.

“This isn’t Chumbawumba, is it?”

Richie laughs, but stays quiet, staring at Eddie unblinkingly. Eddie blinks, then pulls the sleeve out far enough to see what it is. He starts smiling, then laughing, then has to hold on to Richie’s shoulder to keep standing up.

“Boys II Men?”

“And your favorite one! It’s ‘II’!” Richie says brightly, hand laying over Eddie’s on his shoulder. “God, remember how much your mom hated them?”

Eddie blanches. “God, yeah. She didn’t want music by ‘those people’ in the house, especially when they were singing about s-e-x.” He remembers then Mike trying and failing to teach the rest of them the Motownphilly dance. Besides Mike, the only one who was good at it was Ben, and the rest of them looked like the gangly, white fucks that they were. He can almost hear again how bad they all sounded, trying desperately to harmonize while their voices were cracking on every other note.

“Joke’s on _her_ , ‘those people’ invented all the good music.”

“Amen,” Eddie says, holding the bag with the record to his chest. He realizes suddenly that he hasn’t let go of Richie yet, and that Richie is just...slowly, running his thumb back and forth on Eddie’s hand. His hand feels like it’s on fire but there’s no fucking way he’s moving, breathing at all.

“Weird, since she was _really_ into it when I was singing ‘I’ll Make Love To You’ to her when I was—”

“Beep fuckin’ beep, dickhole,” Eddie says, finally snatching his hand back and walking ahead, toward the parked rental car, with Richie on his heels, cackling the whole way.

—

_Well. He had finally said it out loud._

_Myra looked Eddie in the eye, still for a moment, and then put her fork down carefully. They were eating dinner, and it had been nice, for the first time in a long time. Quiet, with some peaceful small talk. How was your day? It was cold today, huh? How is Rachel in Accounting?_

_Which didn’t explain why Eddie then said, well._

_“Thank you for telling me, Eddie.” She smiled at him, looking a little sad, but, well, who could blame her. “Thank you for trusting me.”_

_There was that line Dr. Auckman had taught them to use. Eddie nodded robotically._

_“Is that…is that all?” He finally asked. Myra shrugged, picked up her fork again, and kept eating._

_“Well, Bear, I’m sorry, but I’m not surprised. I kind of thought that might be...the reason.”_

_“Bullshit,” Eddie said, hackles raised. He didn’t want them to be, didn’t want to take it out on her--they had been doing so well lately--but, well. He couldn’t help it. This made him prickly, on the defense. It always had, didn’t it? “There’s no way you could have known.”_

_Myra rolled her eyes. “You’re not as subtle as you think sometimes.”_

_Eddie paused, breathed deep. They couldn’t keep doing this, they had been trying so hard. His first instinct was to freak out, to yell, and to run away. But he couldn’t do that. Not after...this. It wasn’t her fault. Other things were, but not this._

_“What do you mean, Myra?”_

_When she looked up, she didn’t look angry, or resentful, which was kind of amazing, actually. Eddie wasn’t sure that he would be able to feel the same way in her shoes._

_“I mean, you_ did _spend a lot of time with Justine’s husband last week, touching his arms and asking him what he did in the gym.”_

_And._

_Well._

_Touch_ _é_ _._

_“...okay, fair,” Eddie finally grumbled. Myra laughed and kept chewing. The two of them were quiet again for a while, but it didn’t feel so charged anymore. Eddie had opened up, and it hadn’t killed him. He had said his secret. He was still standing. It was nice._

_“So we’re getting divorced, right?” Myra said, finally. Eddie smiled across the table at her._

_“Yeah. I think, you know. I think we both deserve better.”_

_She nodded, then reached for his hand. He reached back._

—

Eddie can’t sleep, again. It has been like this for months, since Derry. At first, his sleep schedule was completely fucked up by recovering from, you know, almost dying. Weeks in the hospital followed by months of physical therapy and medications aren’t necessarily conducive to a good or consistent sleep schedule, especially when you need multiple naps to get through the day. Even now, after his body healed, his mind is still further behind. On more nights than not he’s still waking up from nightmares, drenched in sweat, the sound of It’s voice still cackling in his head.

Fuck.

He turns to his side and looks out the window in the room he’s staying in. He can see the beach at night, and if he strains his ears he can hear the Pacific waves crashing onto the shore of their private beach. That sounds kind of nice, actually; the thought of his toes sinking into the cool sand. Very poetic, or something.

It only takes a few minutes for him to get down there, after quietly creeping through the house and into the back, and then down the steps leading from the main yard to the fenced-off beach. He didn’t put on a shirt or a jacket, but he’s kind of regretting his decision now, with the surprisingly cold, nighttime air all around him. He wraps his arms around himself and keeps walking down to the water

Eddie sits down in the sand, his feet just barely in the waves, and stares at the nighttime sky above the ocean. Even though it’s dark--it must be, what, one? Two in the morning?--it’s still beautiful, with a bright moon above the dark water. The sound of the waves is kind of hypnotic, very soothing, especially after the fucked up nightmare he had been having. During the day he’s still working on unlearning what he had been taught, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t hear _only dirty, bad boys want to touch other boys_ when he’s asleep.

He isn’t surprised when Richie noisily plops down next to him, fairly soon after he sat down himself. 

“Sorry for waking you up,” Eddie says, not looking at Richie yet. He’s suddenly conscious of being topless, his scars out for the world (for Richie) to see. He wraps his arms around himself just a little tighter at that thought.

“Eh, no big deal, babycakes,” Richie says with a sigh. “Can’t sleep anyway.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, finally looking over. It’s after midnight, which means the Netflix special is officially online. “You haven’t looked at your phone, right?”

“Nope,” Richie confirms, popping the “p” loudly. “No Twitter, no e-mails, no worries.” 

“Some worries.”

“Yeah, okay, _some_ worries,” Richie says, smiling over at Eddie. He looks so soft right now, hair sticking up in a thousand different directions. He’s also shirtless, which is...something. Eddie can’t remember the last time they were this naked, this close together, which is a thought he can’t fucking ruminate on right the fuck now. “What about you? What’s got you up?”

“Eh,” Eddie says, poking his foot in the water. “Nightmares, I guess.”

“Oh shit, you, too?” Richie breathes out quickly. “Fuck, I thought it was just me. Which is, okay, now that I’m thinking about it, really dumb.”

“No shit,” Eddie laughs. “You don’t have a monopoly on trauma here.”

“We all sink here,” Richie deadpans. He smiles, a little sadly, then looks out at the moon. “Is it, uh. Is part of it, uh. Is it your divorce?”

“Hmm? What? No, that’s, uh, that’s fine,” Eddie stammers, a little confused. “It was amicable.”

“Yeah, I still don’t believe that,” Richie says. “I mean, fuck, you lost the love of your life.”

Eddie laughs, feeling a little crazy. “No, she wasn’t uh. She wasn’t that.”

“Oh.” They’re quiet for a while, and Eddie’s skin buzzes, maybe only a little from the sand and more from the company. “I’m sorry, Eds. That’s. It’s still hard. To lose someone you love.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie sighs. He still isn’t looking at Richie, but Richie isn’t looking at him either, and, well, it’s early, right? This is a weird liminal space; it’s not really night, and it’s not really day, and nothing feels so _real_ right now, anyway, so he might as well be honest. “But I don’t know if I ever really did. Love her. Like that.”

More silence.

“What the fuck, Eddie?” Richie finally breaks the silence with an incredulous laugh. “Why did you marry her, then?”

“I’m fucking gay, Rich.”

More silence.

“That might…that...wait...that might be the opposite of an answer, actually.”

“Because I’m fucking gay, but I didn’t know, or I didn’t _want_ to know, and we were friends, and I just thought...it’s what you’re supposed to do, right? You’re supposed to marry a girl and have a good job and that’s what makes you happy, right? But we weren’t. We weren’t happy. I think we were happier when we were just friends, but then it was too late, and we just. Got stuck. And I didn’t love her, _couldn’t_ love her like I was supposed to because. Because.”

“Because you’re _gay._ ” 

“Yeah,” Eddie laughs, choking a little. “Yeah, Rich. I’m gay.”

“Huh.”

They’re quiet for a little longer. The space feels smaller all of a sudden, despite the vastness of the ocean. It’s small, where they are, but they’re together, and Eddie can feel how close they are to this gigantic force of nature. Maybe more than one force of nature, really.

Eventually, he gets up and holds his hand down to help Richie and his bad knees up. 

“Wanna swim?”

Richie grins up at him, and bats his eyelashes, and when he speaks it’s in a shitty Southern Voice that Eddie actually kind of loves. “Why Mr. Kaspbrack, I thought you would never ask.”

The ocean is cold--kind of freezing, actually--but Eddie feels warm enough. They dick around in the ocean like they used to as kids, splashing, and racing and just existing. When both of their bodies are basically frozen, teeth chattering, Richie yells out “race you to the hot tub” and he’s off. 

“Don’t run! Be careful, your giant flipper fuckin’ feet could kill you if you slip,” Eddie yells after him, but Richie just laughs and runs backward, practically tripping up the stairs. By the time Eddie reaches him, Richie is already sinking into the hot tub, sighing in delight. Eddie slips in, on the other side of the hot tub, and closes his eyes.

Richie is humming something that Eddie doesn’t recognize.

“What’s that?”

“Two gays, chillin’ in the hot tub, five feet apart cause they’re too gay,” Richie sings. Eddie huffs a laugh, opens one eye to squint at his friend, who is looking way too pleased with himself. His hands are linked behind his head, putting so, _so_ much body hair on display, which is making Eddie feel absolutely _feral_. It’s just fucking shoulder city over there, thick arms and barrel chest, and, _Jesus_ , those are Richie’s _nipples_. Eddie can’t look at him without feeling like he’s going fucking _insane_ , so he doesn’t. He looks back up at the moon, which feels like it’s winking at him, taunting him for being a crazy, feral little fuck.

“Hey, Rich?”

“Yeah?”

“I bet people fuckin’ love your special.”

Richie smiles a little.

“Thanks. Don’t cheat and go on Twitter.”

“I would never,” Eddie says.

Even after they leave the hot tub, Eddie feels warm, _too_ warm. He wants to blame it on the hot tub, but, as he slips back into bed after a quick shower, he knows the truth. He knows it’s because he spent a few hours with his annoyingly attractive best friend, who was shirtless, and nice to him, and he’s _fucked_.

—

_“Do you want to talk about it?”_

_Eddie had looked over at Myra, quickly, before returning his eyes to the road. They had just left Dr. Auckman’s again. Their therapist had seemed a little surprised that they still wanted to come, even after already deciding that they should get divorced, but, well. Nobody could argue that they both didn’t have enough toxic shit to unpack._

_“Maybe, I don’t know, I...yeah. Yeah, we can talk.”_

_“You don’t have to,” Myra had said, quickly. “I’m sorry, was that too pushy? I promise I’m working on it, Bear.”_

_Eddie sighed, squeezed the steering wheel, and gave her a quick, tight smile. “Yeah, I know, Em. Thank you for trying. And I’m trying to, to...”_

_“Not take your anger out on everyone?”_

_“Yeah,” Eddie huffed out a laugh. “Man, we both suck, huh?”_

_“Sometimes,” Myra said, with a sad smile. “But we’re both good people, sometimes, too.”_

_“Yeah,” Eddie sighed. “Yeah.”_

_They sat in silence for a few more blocks, until the explosions in Eddie’s head finally had to shoot out of his mouth._

_“Isn’t it just a little fucked up that my best fucking friend didn’t tell me that he’s gay? That I had to find out with the rest of the world from a fucking_ tweet _? Like, am I just not that important? I mean what the_ fuck _, Richie, right?”_

 _“Well,” Myra said slowly, and Eddie already knew what the fuck was coming. “Have you told_ him _about...you know?”_

_“No. No, okay, you’re right. But that’s...that’s different.”_

_“Have you even told him about the divorce?”_

_“...no. Not yet.” Eddie squeezed the wheel harder. “I don’t even need to look at you to see what face you’re making. I know, I know, I’m a piece of shit, I know.”_

_Myra laughed, and at that moment, it was kind of nice. Kind of nice to hear that sound again, after barely hearing it for years._

_“You two deserve each other,” she said, and Eddie winced. “Sorry. Am I not allowed to tease you about that yet?”_

_“What, can you tease your soon-to-be-ex-husband about his super gay crush on his best friend? Well_ somebody _should, fuck,” Eddie laughed. “Myra? Hey. It’s nice to have my friend Myra back.”_

_Her hand squeezed his leg, very platonically. They had hurt each other a lot, over the years. They were still hurting each other, sometimes. But now? It was funny, how much nicer they were able to treat each other, and how much more he could appreciate her when the looming responsibility of “a husband is supposed to feel like this” was taken off of his shoulders. It wasn’t just him; once he was no longer “her responsibility,” she had let go of the amount she tried to control him, who she wanted him to be so that she looked better. He couldn’t be bitter now, not anymore, about that._

_“Hey,” she said, squeezing his leg one last time and then letting go. “It could be worse. At least it’s good to know our sex life wasn’t because of_ me. _”_

_“It’s not you, it’s me,” Eddie said, deadpan._

—

“Eddie,” Richie whines from the living room. “Eddie, I’m _bored_.”

“Missing your phone?” Eddie laughs. He’s working out in the backyard; when exploring the house he found some free weights and bands, so he’s just going through the short version of his arms and chest routine. He isn’t back up to what he could normally do, before being stabbed through the chest with an alien-spider leg, but he’s getting there.

“Yeah, enter _tain_ me,” Richie groans. Eddie watches him through the open door, sees Richie turn to look at him. His eyes might be playing tricks on him, but he could swear Richie’s eyes darkened just a little. “Fuck, never mind, I see you’re already putting on a show.”

“Fuck off,” Eddie laughs. “You’re gonna make me lose count.”

“Take your shirt off,” Richie calls at him, then making some exaggerated whoops. Eddie smirks because it’s not a _bad_ idea. Yeah, it’s the middle of the afternoon and Richie would then be able to see all his scars in all their not-glory, but. Well. Fuck it. The ocean air is making him crazy, or something.

Richie stops laughing and starts choking when Eddie’s shirt comes off. He’s sputtering by the time Eddie whips his shirt through the open door and it lands on Richie’s face. By the time he’s pulled the shirt down enough to still see, Eddie has moved on to tricep extensions, both hands wrapped around one weight and moving slowly up and down.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Eds, are you trying to kill me?”

“What, you’ve never seen a dude work out before?” Eddie asks, and he’s embarrassed to hear how breathless he sounds. Hopefully, Richie thinks it’s from, you know, the exercise. “Don’t you work out?”

“And ruin this great dad bod I got going for me?” Richie laughs, smacking himself on the stomach. “No way.”

“Shut the fuck up, it’s a great body,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes.

“You think I have a _great_ _body_? Are you sure you don’t need glasses, Spaghett? You getting old?”

“Fuck off, numbnuts, you look good.”

“Christ, you _are_ trying to kill me. And on my _birthday_.”

“It’s not your fucking birthday.”

“My _spiritual birthday,_ ” Richie whines. Eddie looks over and Richie looks as insane as Eddie feels, clutching his discarded shirt and eyes wild. His eyes are raking over Eddie’s body, and as much as he just told Richie to be confident in his body, it’s still a little mind-blowing to Eddie that his own deserves any praise at all. Maybe a few years ago, sure, when he was more fit, when exercise was the only real way he was dealing with his stress. 

But now, it isn’t just the scars; he’s visibly aging. Where his abs used to be tight and drawn they’re now getting looser, a lot of his muscle mass lost from the months when he could barely move his torso at all without searing pain. Every day he can feel his joints getting stiffer, the creaks audible and embarrassing. He’s still plucking every gray hair that pops up, but he knows it’s a losing battle. Soon he’ll look as broken as he can still feel, and then what? He’s newly out, newly single, and as nice as it would be to enter the dating world with a tight, hot body, he can’t have that anymore. He’s a fortysomething divorcée with a kind-of-shitty one-bedroom apartment in NYC, gigantic scars, and the temper of a madman. He’s already wasted so much fucking time trying to be something he’s not, and now he’s just...Eddie.

He’s just Eddie.

So it’s meaningful, truly fucking _meaningful_ , that Richie is still looking at him like he hung the goddamn moon. Like he’s worth looking at. Like he’s worth being around.

Eddie finishes up his set, puts the weight down, and comes back into the living room. Richie barely moves, is just looking up at him with huge, round eyes. Eddie leans down, close, until their noses are almost touching. He watches with interest as Richie’s lips part, just slightly, basically panting from the proximity.

Eddie grabs a hold of his shirt, takes it from Richie, and turns to walk away.

“I need a shower,” he says, smiling to himself. 

He’s ready to walk away, triumphant at being the teasing little shit and a little power-drunk from it, but Richie’s hand snatches at his wrist before he can get too far.

“Wait, Eddie, fuck,” Richie says. Eddie turns and looks, and Richie is just. So annoyingly attractive right now. He looks a little broken open, but that’s okay because Eddie is, too. 

“Yeah?”

“Am I crazy?” Richie asks, voice breaking a little. “Am I reading this wrong?”

Eddie gives a small half-smile, as all of his bravado drips away and he’s fucking melting. God, he can’t have game for more than five seconds because, as it turns out, his heart already belongs to Richie fucking Tozier and he would do anything to reassure this gangly fuck.

“You’re not crazy, Rich. You aren’t reading this wrong.”

His answering smile is blinding, too much teeth in that cute-as-fuck, square fucking head. “Oh. Cool.”

“Yeah, cool.” This is so dumb, Eddie thinks, so fucking dumb. They’re forty, they should be able to do more than say one-syllable words at each other, but nope. He can’t really think either, it turns out.

“So, like. Do you want to make out?”

“Fuck yeah,” Eddie says, and then he’s climbing over Richie on the couch, and his gigantic, stupid hands are all over him, and it’s just. It’s really, really cool.

—

_Eddie couldn’t have known, but he was fucked--just completely, totally,_ fucked-- _from the moment he heard that little gong in Jade of the Orient and looked up to see the love of his life, who he had just remembered existed at all._

_\--_

“Are you ready, Rich?”

“Uh,” was Richie’s super-intelligent reply, which he delivered while still playing with Eddie’s fingers. “I mean. Probably. Yeah. It’s. Am I ever gonna be ready?”

“You can take a dick in the ass but you can’t look at your reviews?”

“I know, I’m braver than the troops,” Richie laughed. “Fuck, I mean. Yeah. Hand it to me.”

Eddie handed over Richie’s phone and pressed the button for it to turn on. They both stared at the screen, in silence, waiting for the notifications to pop up. 

“Hey,” Eddie whispered, turning Richie’s face to look at him. “No matter what happens, we’re in this. Together.”

“Yeah. Fuck yeah, Eds. Yeah. Together.”

They kissed, a short, worried peck, and looked down at the phone, together, as the notifications began appearing.


End file.
